


All The Miles You've Gone Just To Start Again

by horusporus



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Hair Brushing, Hair Kink, M/M, Pre-Movie(s), Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, made up cultural practices, not-so-made-up cultural foods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horusporus/pseuds/horusporus
Summary: Chirrut reminds Baze of what he left behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a standalone, but in my head it can also be a sequel to [this earlier fic I wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10052525). But that's not important. 
> 
> Here's to the small but important sub-genre of fics celebrating Baze's luscious locks.
> 
> I don't even know where this is going, but please, enjoy.

Two days later, Baze came back to Chirrut’s quarters, frantic and ready to search for clues, only to find Chirrut, clad only in his shift and trousers, laying out on a small dark rectangular cloth on the bed, small bottles, jars, and combs. It looked well-cared for, the kind of grooming kit Jedhans would make a point of pride to maintain and expand as they age. He had not had one since he last left the moon, and he had lost the habit.

It wasn't the first or the most important thing lost to the invasion, but he had never missed it until now. He had missed red bean cakes more than a comb, but looking at the spread on Chirrut’s spartan bed, he abruptly felt self-conscious of the state of his person. He might have kept his beard clean, his hair bunned, his cheeks clean and his mouth fresh and that was enough to distinguish him amongst the riffraff in space. Not for a civilised Jedhan gentleman, what more one who served the Temple.

“Ah, you’re back,” Chirrut looked up, calmly.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said gruffly, his anxiety still fresh despite seeing Chirrut with his own eyes.

“Was I missing?”

“You-- you weren’t where you were supposed to!”

“Where? In Jedha? I’ve been here all along.” Chirrut returned his attention to his kit.

Baze meant the defaced pillar opposite the still-bustling ruins of the Western Gate market. He meant also possibly the market itself, where he had learnt that it was where Chirrut has assumed as his area of care, inheriting the patrol of Guardian Rook, in addition to his own neighbourhood. He also meant that perhaps Chirrut were visiting Ananda the healer, who also happened to be a cousin to the late Guardian.

He did not mean to continue the fight that never quite happened and never quite resolved, two days ago, when he dared to make himself known to Chirrut, who looked utterly unsurprised.

He had forgotten the rhythms of their conversations together. Is this a fight or banter? Often even back in the old days, it was never quite clear. Chirrut needled because it was his nature to needle, but never for frivolity, even if his sardonic volleys had been taken as such.

“I was worried,” he said quietly.

Chirrut frowned. He should’ve been satisfied that Baze conceded the point.

Abruptly he pointed to the door. “You better take your ablutions now. The fresher won’t be free once Ngaiyun is done with the children.”

Mechanically Baze did just that, only realising belatedly that he had barely shed his armour. Sheepishly he pivoted, but Chirrut made no comment aside from murmuring that he should take the small basket of lather and the fresh towel he had laid out by the door.

“And use the water ration. This block got extra this week from the snowfall that just came in yesterday,” Chirrut continued.

Baze nodded and fled as dignified as he could with a basket of lather and a towel on his arm.

* * *

 

 He came back in his slightly damp jumpsuit, his undershirt joining the now-used towel on his arm. Chirrut tsked at this, and instead of instructing him, came up to him instead. He tapped on his shoulder.

“Off,” he said.

“What?” Baze asked dumbly.

“There’s nothing that I haven’t seen before, no?” Chirrut said deliberately, his blue milk gaze trained straight at him.

“I--” _there are new scars, new welts, hair where it would never have been allowed…_ “I suppose not,” he said dubiously.

Chirrut smiled a little. “Don’t worry, I only meant there is a clean robe you could use. Here.”

“Oh. Right,” he took it awkwardly and began turning away. Which was not exactly needed in this situation, is it? But Baze had lost many things. He had shed many habits. These small things, these small memories, that made him who he was, that he had to leave behind or allowed to be left behind. He was a man built for spartan efficiency now.

Now he was a Baze who stood awkwardly, his back facing his old blind lover while he hurriedly changed clothes in deference to Chirrut’s seemingly expectant air.

He grunted in query once he was done, throwing his arms wide the way he used to, before remembering he didn’t do that anymore, but he was arrested by Chirrut’s hand on his upper arm.

“Thick,” he said finally, shamelessly massaging the muscles under his hand.

Baze almost spluttered, but he was almost blinded by relief, that this was still possible. That they could still be friends.

“Hard work,” he said briefly.

“Hah, is that we call it these days.” Chirrut turned towards the bed but didn’t let go of his hold. Baze managed to follow somewhat gracefully even if he was still unclear what was it that they were doing then. Surely not--

“You have long hair now, so I’m told,” Chirrut began.

“You couldn’t tell?” Baze asked, half-teasing, half-curious.

“Yes, but people also wanted to tell me about it, so I’m twice-told, you could say. Sit.”

Baze followed the tug and sat in front of Chirrut, who pulled his rickety stool closer and settled behind him.

“Are you-- are you grooming me?” Baze asked in disbelief.

“Do you know,” Chirrut picked up his vanity kit. From over his shoulder, Baze could see he was considering it contemplatively. “--that I had almost forgotten I had these. I’m still tidier than you,” Chirrrut scoffed, expectant of Baze’s expression. “--but these, I had put away. I thought they were too fine for regular use.”

And Baze fitted the occasion? “When--” _did you get it?_  “What--” _happened to the old one?_ He cleared his throat. “I thought it looked unfamiliar.”

“Oh that one,” Chirrut waved a hand holding a long-tailed comb. “I still have it. I still use it. No, this one came from a very grateful client. Coruscanti rosewood,” he held it out for Baze to look, which he did, but he did not dare touch it. It was too personal, and it did look elegantly luxurious. There was even enamel inlay along the base of the teeth. “Somehow, I didn’t have to venture far for the world to come to me,” Chirrut continued contemplatively.

Baze swallowed. That’s banter, or just an insult.

Whichever it was, his blood rushed at it. “I wasn’t _sightseeing_ ,” he gritted out.

“You’re right of course,” Chirrut quietly replied. He tugged gently at the damp low bun. “May I?”

“I can do it,” Baze turned instead, feeling urgent. “I will look for a kit tomorrow, there is no need for you to trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble,” Chirrut said serenely. “I want to.”

Baze frowned. Would it be impolite for him to refuse? Could he claim impropriety? They had been intimate, they had fussed with each other, but they kept their heads mostly shorn according to Guardian custom. This was no retread of previous habits. This was new territory of closeness he had never let himself imagine.

It was an awkward angle he had twisted himself into but he found himself compelled to look at Chirrut behind him, to understand. The years seemed to have been kinder on him compared to other humanoids, yet the lines might be fine but his brow was not untroubled; his mouth held a shadow of suffering. He had aged in their separation, just like Baze. The demons that had troubled Baze had visited him too, perhaps differently but there all the same. As usual when it came to them and philosophy, Baze could never quite follow. He was ejected by their circumstances while Chirrut remained, stubborn like he used to be stubborn, steadfast like he used to be steadfast, uncompromising in the way Baze used to be known for. He could not see how Chirrut, his angry whirlwind Chirrut, was the one who stuck like an oak tree in the storm, and because he could not understand this, he could not understand the nature of what Chirrut was asking right then.

“Why?” He couldn’t help that slight break in his voice, but he was too self-conscious to do more but swallow air.

Chirrut took a few long moments of silence. His finger holding the comb was tapping the handle gently, his face was turned downwards in contemplation.

“I remembered how fastidious you could be,” he said. “You always took a long time to be ready. Now, you wake up, you wipe yourself down and you are ready.”

“I’ve learnt not to waste time.”

Chirrut hummed in agreement.  “Useful, I imagine,” he said. He touched the bun again. “Well?”

What could he do? He could always say no.

He didn't want to.

He turned his head back facing forward, and bowed his head.

Chirrut took a moment before he moved. Gently he loosened the tie, holding Baze’s hair as he lengthened and removed the elastic. He carefully spread the mass down Baze’s shoulders, fingercombing through the drying strands.

Baze felt struck dumb. To his consternation he realised that this would not be brief. He should have said no.

Chirrut made no comment of Baze’s stiffness,  but continued combing and running through his hair with his fingers. The only sounds were their breathing, and the children from Ngaiyun’s class, noisy in their typical afterschool glee. The slight breeze from the ill-fitting window, and Chirrut's fingers against his hair, his scalp, the back of his ears, and his neck. Eventually, Baze felt a peace come over him, in the din of their rundown city block, so unlike the deep stillness of their dormitory in the Temple.

Firm fingers moved methodically through his hair, sometimes touching skin, jolting him out of his breathing when they did.

“Your hair,” Chirrut marvelled. “Somehow I had imagined it to be stick straight. Maybe a little flip at the ends.”

“It was a surprise to me as well,” Baze admitted. By the time he left, he had sworn off the habitual close crop they had been subjected to, which, between the two of them, suited his fine straight black hair better. Over the years, it was one less thing to worry about, but he was only recently getting used to the shock of his own reflection, and seeing that mass of hair on himself, the slight waves falling past his ears and usually tied in a hasty bun or sloppy ponytail. “Yours too,” he said hesitantly.

In comparison, Chirrut’s was practically correct in form, short and neat, but there was no mistaking the hair curling past his temples. There was a time when that would have been reason enough for a trim, to go to Guardian Taymour and have him sigh and break out his scissors and shavers, and endure the next half hour as they admonished you that perhaps they were busy at the time, did you not consider?

“I’m trying to hold off as much as I can,” Chirrut confided, fingers still methodically combing through Baze’s hair, lulling him into a feeling that time and trouble had no place there. “Ananda insists that she could do it, but even I can tell she takes a bit too much from my right.” He rummages around his opened kit, and picked up a wide-toothed comb.

Baze nearly spoke to offer, but he’d not had to be a person who would wield a blade in precision that was not a clean kill. His precision led to fatality. He could gut and he could scalp, he could slice and he could gouge, but he would not trust himself to snip, shave, and trim mere hair. “Looks good,” he said instead.

“Do you think so?” Chirrut answered, pleased. He was holding a bottle, which revealed itself to contain sweet-smelling namjar oil as he shook the contents out on his palm. Without further ado, he dabbed the oil on Baze’s temples, the backs of his ears, the edges of his scalp, and rubbing his hands together and worked the rest of the warmed oil into Baze’s hair.

Baze smelled _good_. He smelled like the Eastern courtyard in summer after the rain when the namjar would slowly open its petals to catch the unexpected moisture in the air. He smelled like home.

He was finally home.

“Baze? Baze?” came Chirrut’s worried voice, but Baze could not speak, he was choking on his tears.

“Let’s stop,” Chirrut said decisively. But no sooner did his hand touched the kit, Baze shot out his own to arrest it. “No,” Baze gasped. “Please.”

“All right,” Chirrut said finally. He picked a rattail comb this time, and parted Baze’s hair into sections. With every movement, fresh scent escaped into the air, and Baze would be caught anew by the grief he had tried so hard to run away from.

There was no more Eastern courtyard, no more namjar gardens. No more younglings spreading pollen along the cobblestones, the ones who he used to find unseemly, a necessary blight to the Temple’s co-existence with the world outside it.

But now all he had was this recollection of the scent, the heat of the sun, the sensation of the cobbled paths beneath his sandals, and the phantom tug of the children’s hands in his as they asked about this or that, which used to annoy him to no end.

He--they had to cremate so many bodies, and even then only the ones they could find and pick apart. He used to try so hard to name them all in his prayers until eventually there were more of the nameless, who could not be named by anyone still living. Whole lineages arrested, sundered, ended, in a blight of fire and force, no one to remember them but strangers burdened with responsibility but not familiarity.

“This is a good scent,” he said hoarsely.

“I remembered when you would use to make namjar chains and leave them by the benches,” Chirrut said softly, as he gently gathered separate sections of Baze’s hair to plait.  “The children always suspected it was you, you know. I might have helped in that regard.”

Did he? Baze had forgotten. “I used to complain about them.” He remembered that.

Chirrut chuckled a little. “Yes, to their faces sometimes even. Did you know how much that only delighted so many of them? They liked an honest adult.”

“There,” he said, patting the three finished low plaits. “Take a look, how is it?”

A little crooked, but mostly fine. Somehow Chirrut had managed to introduce a side part that softened his visage. “Looks good,” he said, staring at his reflection. How long would this gentleman dress-up will last in the Jedha that had survived now? “A bit fussy,” he allowed.

“Not fussy enough,” Chirrut chuckled. “Remember when Sylvanian beads were all the rage? Maybe I could try to find some for you.”

“Don’t make me suffer those things alone,” Baze shot back, shuddering unconsciously, remembering the fashion for those whistling tassels, and outrageous dimensional art that made them fashionable in the first place. “But,” he touched one of his braids self-consciously, “thank you.”

Chirrut’s expression became warmer, and he held out his hand. Baze was caught by indecision.

“Baze, let me look.”

Right. He stepped forward away from the cracked piece of mirror that was all that remained from the Hall of Reflection, towards Chirrut, and sat again on the bed, this time facing him.

Immediately Chirrut ran his hands across Baze’s brow, to his crown, and down, gently feeling the braids he had made to the hemmed in ends. “I’ll need to practice my tucks better,” he said contemplatively. “For next time.”

Baze had let his gaze followed the minute changes to Chirrut’s expression hungrily, so thoroughly that he nearly missed what Chirrut said. “Next time?”

“Are you going anywhere?” Chirrut looked at him in challenge.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Baze realised he should have perhaps worn something for his head before bed after all. He told himself he was feeling much too awkward and an imposition to sleep comfortably for it to matter, which was true, but regardless his braids had gone askew, and Chirrut was nowhere to be found. He would have to fix it somehow. 

Soon enough Chirrut came back, with a small bag in his hand. Baze merely grunted through the elastic between his teeth. He’d snapped one which left him with only two ties, and one braid obviously much smaller than the one he was almost finished. 

In the mirror, he looked ridiculous. He growled and removed the ties. He could not be bothered with his hair today. Maybe he should cut it.

“Where is this Ananda you mentioned yesterday?”

Chirrut, who was silently having his breakfast by the bed on the mat he had unrolled on the floor, paused. “Why?”

“I need a haircut.”

“You do not!” Chirrut said immediately. 

“Don’t I?” Baze growled again. “This is ridiculous.”

Chirrut didn’t answer, but merely held out his bag. It was nearly translucent from the oil, and there was no mistaking the fried ku’eh. “Have something to eat, we can talk about it.”

“This is not a committee decision,” Baze replied in frustration, even as he too sat down, and flung away his hair from his face in frustration. Moments later he was passed the still-hot rehydrated fah milk. With that in hand he grumpily dipped the long fried dough into it, swirling it a little. Belatedly he realised what he was doing and paused.

“Don’t stop now, you always said it will bring you bad luck if not.”

“Childish superstitions,” Baze couldn’t help his bitterness. His hand resumed stirring. 

Chirrut merely smiled into his own cup of fah. 

The first bite of the milk-swollen dough nearly choked him. Was it really the oil that made the difference? He tried to make some once. It was a stupid impulse brought on by antsiness of having to be planetbound for more than three days after more than two years jumping from ship to base to ship. He thought it was so simple, and the hovel he was in had a stove. He stole some salt, bought some flour, and even proper filtered water. 

It tasted nothing like this. 

He stopped trying, left it all in that hovel to rot. He learnt to stop missing things, to eat what he could find, and not bother with the rest.

“It’s his niece who’s running the stall now,” Chirrut said, motioning with his own ku’eh to the one in Baze’s hand. “Have you been to market properly yet?”

“I have,” he said vaguely. He didn’t elaborate that he had been using the market as his observation point, trying to note the changes the years had wrought while he was away. He didn’t mention how he had been observing Chirrut and his gentle beggar act, the way Gerrera’s men move around like shadows while Imperials crawl on the ground like flies. 

Chirrut nodded but pursued no further. Soon enough, breakfast was done. Baze cleared the spread but it was Chirrut who took the rubbish from his hands, to the covered bin by the door. 

“I could’ve done that,” he protested. 

“Next time,” Chirrut said.

Baze frowned. They had discussed this, the first night he returned. “Chirrut--”

“I expect there’ll be a few more meals we’ll share before you leave again,” Chirrut continued stubbornly. Baze sighed. Fine. 

He turned to reach for his pack. His own threadbare vanity kit only held a bottle of oil he won in a parlour game some moons ago, and a broken comb. Even if he was to cut his hair today he would like to be more presentable. 

Once again, Chirrut took his hand and the comb within it. “Please,” he said quietly. 

“What are you asking?” Baze murmured. Chirrut only continued to stare at him intensely, while Baze felt too keenly the thumb stroking his knuckles gently.

“Let me take my ablutions,” Chirrut said finally. “Then we can go together. It won’t be as nice to do a homecoming by yourself.”

He looked so hopeful. His hands were a little cool but alive, and they were firmly holding on. Baze was beginning to recall how difficult he always found it to deny this man. 

Even if he had been on the moon for a full week by now. “All right.”

* * *

 

Chirrut was right, there was a difference. A week ago, he kept to the shadows and all he could see were potential targets, egress points, traps, and useable weapons. Now with Chirrut by his side, calling out greetings, small talk, and disguised information trading, he saw so much more. Five days ago, he saw ruins. Now he saw home.

Young Ananda Rook cut a slim figure in the gloom of her shop, if it could be called that. Crumbling bricks with little mortar made up the walls, and tarp covered the frame of what was clearly meant to be an awning. There was barely any space left that was not occupied by the monstrous captain’s chair now repurposed as a barber’s chair. The air was heavy with smoke from the grill facing outside, the only source of light.

Chirrut could not have made his dissatisfaction any more clear when Baze relayed his request if he had actually spoke. Ananda looked at the two of them, and even her nervous disposition could not hide her amusement. 

By the time she got him situated on the chair, with him feeling more ridiculous by the second, she clearly had some ideas. “I could take some inches from here, and here?” she indicated to his curling ends. 

“I don’t care,” he said curtly.

Chirrut tsked loudly. “I do!”

“I will cut off the tail of a pony and wear it, if it matters that much to you,” Baze shot back. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You won’t need to see it.”

Chirrut grinned. Ananda coughed. Baze flushed. 

“I’ll-- I’ll just start?” 

Baze took pity on the poor girl and nodded assent. 

In order to get the best light, he was facing away and into the gloom of the dilapidated space. He could hear Chirrut settling by the stoop outside, shaking his bowl of planted coins. Ananda was carefully laying his hair flat, and by the time her scissors began their soft snipping, all Baze could sense was the hum of the market, Chirrut’s heckling and the char rising from the grilled meat.

“Stop that!” Chirrut’s voice pitched upwards suddenly. Baze jerked. 

There was a cry outside, but it wasn’t Chirrut. That did not matter. Baze knew immediately that Chirrut was gone in the direction of that cry. He leapt off of the chair, his hand reaching out to his canon on the floor. No time for everything else, this would have to do. 

“Wait!”

Ananda held out a heavy blaster, the safety already off. “You’ll catch up faster this way,” she said.

Baze nodded, dropping his canon and taking the blaster in one sweeping move. As he ran he weighted the blaster -- good heft, balanced in the handle. He wouldn’t miss too much as he got used to it. 

And not a moment too soon. Chirrut was fending off three troopers, but five more was heading his way. Baze aimed, missing two with his blaster, but not with his palms as he rushed at them. The momentum propelled him towards Chirrut, and they collided back to back, and on instinct he dropped into third movement knowing Chirrut was his mirror in the other direction. Off to his left, he could see the old man whose cries started this, crouching over his overturned tray, and struggling to be moved by the other bystanders who had taken action in the meantime. 

“Your hair all done?” Chirrut asked.

“Yes, it’s exactly what I wanted,” he huffed. They could both hear the whirring of tanks, and rushing steps. Time to leave. 

A Twi’lek was waving his hands at them. Baze grabbed Chirrut by the shoulders and set off in the Twi’lek’s direction. Immediately other Jedhans moved to swallow them in the crowd, as they followed the Twi’lek through the melee. He kept Chirrut close, or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter, they moved through the market as one, like they had always done. 

He deposited them at the front of a blastdoor. He took out a small key, and gave it to Chirrut. “There’s enough in there for 2 nights, but you’ll only need one. It won’t open anyway, after all, it’s a broken unit,” he finished with a sly look. 

“Thank you Ionul,” Chirrut said solemnly, palming the override key, before pushing Baze through the door. The door shut, and gave an alarming chirp.

Chirrut sat down and began to meditate. Baze prowled the room, which didn’t take long at all. In short order too, they could hear the stormtroopers moving from door to door.

“Can we trust your friend?”

“We can trust in the Force.”

“That’s not his name,” he muttered, hand clutching the now-pitiful blaster, waiting for the knock. 

But it didn’t come. He could hear conversations but nothing clear. No shouts, no screams. Just Jedhans taking care of their own and the stormtroopers guilelessly led away. 

“Now, let me look at this haircut,” Chirrut gestured towards him, chin first, resembling so much like the stubborn boy he met all those years ago. Baze could not but go towards him -- with every second he was the Baze who did not leave, and that Baze would follow where Chirrut would go. 

“You interrupted me,” was all he said as he settled in front of Chirrut, on the threadbare carpet. As Chirrut felt the back of his head and the now-tangled strands, shorter than the hair still falling over his ears, he chuckled. “So I did. Looks like the start of a fine trend.”

“Truly you’re blind, you old man,” Baze couldn’t help but tease. His blood was only just settled from the excitement, and he felt almost giddy, the way he’s not been in years.

Chirrut merely hummed in reply, his hands still moving. In the quiet, Baze’s body felt like it continued sparking, with every motion of Chirrut’s fingers in his hair. His own lay restlessly on his lap. 

Chirrut paused. “I’m glad you’re home.”

_ I’m sorry I left _ . But he could not say that. Yet. 

“You need someone to cover you,” he said.

“I trust in the Force to look over me.”

“Yes,” he looked away. “I suppose it’s done a good enough job.”

Chirrut placed his hand on his cheek and pulled his gaze back on him. “It was acceptable,” he said simply before bringing their faces close together for a kiss that Baze had never thought would happen again.  

He shut his eyes tightly and surged towards Chirrut, his hands now eagerly roaming the planes of the body they had missed the most. Chirrut moaned in contentment, his own hands and lips and now legs returning the favour and laid their claim on Baze.

He barely undid Chirrut’s sash before yanking robe apart to get at the skin underneath, to the collarbones that barely peeked and yet always drove him mad. The now-loosened fabric shifted with his restless hands, bunched up in his fists as they moved up Chirrut’s back. He recalled then how much Chirrut could be undone by the sensation of the weave slipping across his skin, heated by Baze’s own touch. He recalled as Chirrut moaned, and pressed Baze harder to himself, and Baze stayed, his mouth and lips sucking on that longed-for skin, his teeth biting and tongue soothing, Chirrut restless around him. Baze stayed. 

He only moved apart when Chirrut pushed to remove his unbuttoned jumpsuit, but he couldn’t take the distance and leapt back as soon as his arms were free. They felt good together, skin-drunk and contact-high. They kissed again, and again, and Chirrut pushed Baze on the makeshift pallet, looking triumphant above him before diving down to his belly and down further still to his hard shaft, briefly nosing at it before engulfing it in his warm wet mouth.

Baze almost shouted before having the presence of mind to slap his own mouth. And nearly bit his hand through when fingers scratched his perineum and his hole. 

“Missed you,” Chirrut said simply before resuming his attack.

Baze tried to laugh behind his hand, he really did, but a moan left him before anything else.

* * *

 

 

Later, Chirrut was twirling through the longer strands that fell on Baze’s chest. Baze’s arm was going to be numb from the weight of Chirrut’s head, but he would cut it off before having Chirrut displaced. 

“I still need to go back and have this properly cut,” Baze reminded. 

Chirrut tugged at the lock in his hand. “Don’t you dare.”

Baze could understand. He was feeling possessive about the cowlick he was himself worrying with his fingers. 

“Have you received any vision on what to do then?”

Chirrut huffed and sat up, not letting Baze’s hair go, which meant he needed to sit up too. Which he did, groaning as much as possible. 

Chirrut by then was turning his back on him, searching for his robe. Baze did nothing but idly tracing the bumps along Chirrut’s spine. Chirrut shivered and almost shook him off, but he didn’t, so Baze continued his mapping of his beloved’s body.

Baze didn’t really care what mad ideas Chirrut might be entertaining, but he was all ears. And all hands too; now that the urgency had passed, he would rather indulge. Chirrut shook out his robe successfully, but Baze was busy replicating the bruise on Chirrut’s neck to a more discreet spot a little higher and further back. Until the unmistakable sounds of cloth ripping registered.

“What are you doing?” Baze asked in alarm.

Chirrut was tugging at his robe’s left sleeve, ripping them apart into strips. He looked up at Baze after a dozen strips lay on his lap. “This will look messy for now, but I’ll make them neater tomorrow.”

Baze frowned. He didn’t dare to assume, but it seemed to be the only conclusion. 

Still, his voice couldn’t help being tender, as he tracked Chirrut’s nimble fingers as they gathered his hair and bound them into the cloth. “We’ve been going about this all backwards,” he said, referring to the matrimony plaits Chirrut was working into his hair. 

Chirrut stopped. “Do you mind?”

“Quicker please,” Baze said, between kisses. “I have better things in mind to celebrate.”

\----------- END -----

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started because I was hankering about Baze's hair, but it turned out that Baze was hankering for Jedhan food. In the words of Lin Yutang, “What is patriotism but the love of the food one ate as a child?”
> 
> Wanderer!Baze probably had [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIF8xvSA0Gw) in the backdrop of his life all those years away. I, on the other hand, just depended on a staggering number of post-rock mixes. Fic title however is from Zayn.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://horusporus.tumblr.com), it's a catch-all for all sorts.


End file.
